Arkanos guided High Priestess Isolde away from the blood-soaked execution plaza, his steps measured, as though each one carried the weight of the lives just snuffed out.
He inclined his head toward her, the faintest hint of a nod, and murmured, "Thank you for your presence today, Head pristess. It lends a certain… legitimacy to the proceedings."
His tone was smooth, almost too smooth, the kind of polished gratitude that could either be genuine or a well-practiced mask.
With Arkanos, it was always hard to tell—It was like he had perfected the art of being unreadable, the kind of man who could smile at you while looking forward to your demise or, worse, your irrelevance.
Isolde, for her part, didn't bask in the thanks. She adjusted the silver staff in her grip, its sigils still faintly humming from the rites she'd performed.
"It's only my responsibility, no need to think my for it your majesty." she said.
